Young Writers Society

The isolation, the hurt and loneliness of solitude you wished not for. It seems like the whole world is out to get you and all you can do is stand and take it all. Calling for help but the voice falling on deaf ears, the pleading, tearful eyes reaching none more than the blind, and the appearance of lostness and craving for familiarity on the face speaks to strangers as a leper. The mind becomes only an ocean of distraught and unsettlement seeking for a lifeguard. The desperation and the devastation-- the knowing of not knowing who or where you are on the soil you stand on. 

The voices in your head create an orchestra too loud to hear what’s real and around you. The low strings of the cellos resonate with the sound of the woebegone, synchronized by the black keys of a piano creating harmonious sadness. The soul slowly becomes more and more hollow as its emptiness and missing of hope creates a bigger hole. Like budded flowers of Gypsophila so small and delicate the soul is, awaiting pure white to bloom and overflow what’s closed and dark.

Yet there is no light without the dark, and no dark without white. The black keys waltz around the resonance of the lowest string, resounding a song of the heart that time alters with the rising suns and moons. The language of the orchestra of voices speaks personally, and is changed by the healing of time also. Flowers bloom as gentle as babies’ breath and attract the eyes of care. The ocean waves calm into something like the purest silk, and the lifeguard can see what was hard to. And all of a sudden, you’re not so lost and alone anymore.